


Take Me (As You Found Me)

by flash0flight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, Fluff, Mentions of Nightmares, momentary flashes of violence, post-ws recovery, rule 63!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flash0flight/pseuds/flash0flight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph sketches while Bucky watches, quietly asking her what their apartment looked like, the size of the movie theatre they used to sneak into as kids, their room at the orphanage they had until they were old enough to leave. Bucky doesn’t remember, not entirely. He’s got splinters, fragments of everything they had together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me (As You Found Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girl0nfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/gifts).



> Part of the fic I'm still finishing off with rule 63!Steve - Steph - and Bucky. Post-Cap 2 recovery, where Bucky seeks Steph out and they heal together, piece by piece.
> 
> Title of an Anberlin song, like almost everything I write.

After weeks of searching, combing through files and watching surveillance footage for hours on end, after agonising over finding him, the last thing Steph’s expecting is for Bucky to turn up at her door. For him to be standing right in front of her, both hands shoved in his pockets, watching her like he’s not sure he should be here. Like he’s not sure she wants him here.

And she doesn’t even know what to say, or how to say it, how to form the words she never thought she’d have a chance to speak to him. She’s not even sure she should, not sure he wants to hear them, not sure he’s ready for them. All she can do is watch him, wait for him to speak, to say something, _anything_ —

“I lost my ring.”

He finally croaks out, voice rough and harsh like he hasn’t used it much lately, but it’s still his voice, it’s still Bucky.

“We’ll get you a new one.”

She steps back a little and gestures for him to come inside, trying to bite back on the fear that he won’t, that he’ll turn and run and she’ll be stuck chasing him again, chasing him into nothing, watching him disappear—

Bucky takes one cautious step towards the door, then another, then another, shuffling inside carefully, and Steph can’t help but note that there’s something about the way he holds himself, the tenseness in his back, the way he’s holding his shoulders that seems like he’s expecting a trap, but— who knows how many rooms he’s walked into only to be strapped down and worked over again?

Swallowing down on that thought, Steph closes the door behind him, focusing instead on the fact that he’s here, he’s _with her_. He came home.

—

Bucky won’t sleep in her room. He’s refused, ever since day one. Ever since he set down the two handguns and an oddly familiar knife on her coffee table and asked her to lock them away, somewhere he couldn’t get to them. And Steph has told him time and time again that she trusts him, but she knows better than to push, not when Bucky seems so scared.

She has a safe, tucked away in her wardrobe. The guns and the knife have lived there ever since. But Bucky, he’s been staying her spare bedroom, and Steph’s not even sure he’s been _sleeping_.

For the time being, they spend their days together; Steph made a point of buying him new clothes, getting him the food he likes - apparently, he can’t quite remember being a fan of spaghetti, but there must be something in the way she makes it, because she always sees him smile, just a little. She even cut his hair for him, though she’s not sure how they got through it. Every cut just made him tense up, and Steph was worried it would trigger something.

When he got to the point that his arms were shaking from gripping the chair so hard, all she could think to do was sing, like when they were young. Like when they were stuck in camp and Bucky couldn’t sleep through the night. When they both missed home so much they’d do anything just for a little piece of it.

Just like they do now.

—

They spend a lot of time watching movies they used to love, reading books Bucky used to adore. Steph sketches while Bucky watches, quietly asking her what their apartment looked like, the size of the movie theatre they used to sneak into as kids, their room at the orphanage they had until they were old enough to leave. Bucky doesn’t remember, not entirely. He’s got splinters, fragments of everything they had together, and he’s trying to piece them together, somehow. Make sense of a life he can’t quite grasp yet.

So Steph starts filling a book with sketches, a book with answers to every question, detailing them as much as possible to help him remember, to give him something to hold onto.

One night, he asks about the dress she wore when they got married, down at City Hall. Steph smiles, flips to a new page, and does her best to sketch it out, careful not to miss the detail on the hem, on the sleeves, around the neck. And she hates doing sketches of herself, but Bucky shifts a little closer to her when she does, watching eagerly as she pencils in the way she’d done her hair in careful curls that day, the small smile she knows she’d had on her lips the entire time, unable to wipe it off even for a moment.

She can remember it like it was yesterday, too; no matter how much they knew it was only a small wedding, it was everything Steph wanted. Everything they both wanted. For them, it was special. And they made it so.

Before she knows it, she’s sketching Bucky too, carefully detailing the smart suit he’d worn that used to belong to his father. The way he’d slicked back his hair, the way he’d fished out the cufflinks that they knew they’d never sell; his mother had given them to his father one year, a long time ago, and Bucky’d been hiding them away for as long as Steph could remember.

By the time she’s done, she’s moved carefully into Bucky’s lap, holding the book up for them both to see. Two figures, carefully sketched, smiling up at them from the page. And the more they look, the more comfortable Bucky seems, the more his arms seem to move to encircle Steph, holding her that little bit closer, a little tighter, a little more settled.

When she looks in his eyes again, the fear isn’t there. He’s nervous as hell, she can tell, and the way he’s furrowing his eyebrows tells her he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing, but— he’s not scared of hurting her, not now.

He only starts a little when she moves to loop her arms around his neck, pressing that little bit closer to him, mumbling gentle ‘I love you’s against his skin as she’s been doing for days now. Because it’s the one thing they both know, the one thing Bucky’s still sure about, even if he’s not sure how they met, or where they grew up. Even if he’s not sure what his ring looked like, or where they were the first time they kissed, he still knows he loves her.

And that’s enough, for Steph. That’s always going to be enough.

—

Not for the first time since Steph was pulled out of the ice, she wakes up screaming.

For the first time since, though, Bucky’s there, standing in her doorway, hands clenched into fists like he’s expecting a fight, his eyes wild with anger and worry and fear, fear for _her_. Expecting to see someone hurting her, someone trying to take her away from him.

All he finds is Steph curled up on the bed, trying to catch her breath, trying to tell him it’s okay, to go back to bed.

Instead, he slides into bed beside her, pulls her into his lap and holds her like he used to when she was sick, when she missed her mom or had dreams about her dad dying in a war he shouldn’t have been in. He holds her like she’s all that matters in the world. He doesn’t even ask what happened, what she dreamed about, what she saw, and— she’s glad. She doesn’t know how to tell him that for two years now, all she’s been dreaming about is losing him.

She doesn’t know how to tell him that, now, she’s dreaming about failing him, about losing him all over again.

But he doesn’t ask, not yet, he just holds her and tells her he loves her, tells her it’s all going to be okay. And she believes him. She always has.

And for once, he stays with her.

—

One thing Steph missed, beyond anything else, is waking up and seeing her husband beside her. Maybe now, she’ll get to see it more often. Maybe now, he’ll stay.

—

Bucky can’t take her shirt off without pausing, without staring in horror at the scarring on her shoulder from the knife, in her abdomen from the bullets. They’re fading fast, but not fast enough; the doctor’s think it’s from the trauma of fighting with a fresh wound in her shoulder, from having to dig out a bullet that the serum started healing around before they could operate. They’re healed, though, and they’re fading faster than they should be.

He can’t help it though, reaching out to trace over what’s left of the scars, biting on his lip to hold back the gentle ‘I’m sorry’ she knows he wants to say. And Steph can’t blame him, not when she’d stared in absolute horror and guilt at the bruising on his shoulder, when he’d first arrived. He’d explained he’d had to set his own shoulder, once he realised it was dislocated. He’d told her it wasn’t her fault, and he knows it’s not, that she did what she had to.

This wasn’t his fault, though, this wasn’t _him_ , and Steph knows it as much as she knows anything else. He doesn’t believe it, though, not when he remembers his own hands pushing that knife into her shoulder, not when he remembers shooting her. Not when he holds all those memories of things that weren’t him, jumbled up with the ones that are, the ones that are still in fragments.

But she tells him again that it wasn’t his fault, she tells him she loves him, tell him it’s all okay. And she’ll keep telling him, until he believes her.

—

The third night Bucky stays with her, Steph doesn’t wake up from nightmares.

She wakes up with a gleaming hand around her throat, with Bucky hovering over her, staring at her with wild, blank eyes, his face contorted with rage.

He says something in Russian, something she doesn’t understand, but she can guess. He sounds confused, on edge, like he doesn’t know where he is, who he is. Who _she_ is.

“It’s me, Bucky— it’s Steph. I’m here.”

She doesn’t move, she hardly even breathes, silence stretching out between them as she waits, watches Bucky’s eyes clear, watches him remember who he is, where he is. His fingers loosen around her throat slowly as Bucky’s expression shifts from rage to horror, and just seeing it breaks her heart because she _knows_ how he is, knows he’s going to blame himself, know he’s going to try and run.

She can’t let him— she _won’t_ let him.

Pushing herself up slowly, as so not to startle him, Steph reaches for his hands before he can retreat, tangling their fingers together and trying not to take it to heart when he flinches, chewing on his lower lip, mumbling something about how he shouldn’t be here, how he’s going to hurt her, how he needs to leave before he does something they can’t undo.

Steph’s not having any of it, though, reaching to cup his cheek, stroke his skin gently and tell him how much she loves him. How much she _trusts_ him, no matter what.

It takes a while, some gentle coaxing and hushed assurances, but eventually Bucky breaks, curls around her and holds her so carefully, kissing her cheeks, her hair, her eyes, rubbing her back and telling her he loves her, telling her he’s _sorry_ , and all she can do is tell him it’s okay, tell him everything’s going to be okay, and hope to god he believes her.

—

When she finally lets Sam come over, Steph worries. Not because of the way they fought, the hits Bucky landed, but because she knows Sam. Knows that over the short time they’ve known each other, he’s grown protective. And maybe, he’s a little more reasonable than her, always pausing while they searched for Bucky to carefully remind her the man they find might not be her husband anymore. She worries he won’t see Bucky for what he is, for the man who never had a choice, for the man she loves.

She worries Bucky won’t know what to do, won’t know how to talk to him, won’t understand that underneath everything, Sam just wants to help. And she doesn’t blame him, she never could, not when he’s spent so long alone, locked away in his own mind underneath layers of programming. But— she worries.

And it’s tough at first, she’s carrying the conversation, trying to keep them both involved, telling Sam stories from before the war, when she and Bucky were growing up. Getting a detail wrong here or there and letting Bucky correct her, enough so that a few stories in he takes over and tells it himself, a little hesitant, as though he’s not quite sure he should be.

He should, though, and he does, making Steph laugh as he tells Sam about the time he almost got caught stealing a mug when the orphanage took them to the Met one year, barely made it back with the thing, and all because he thought Steph would like it. Before she knows it, they’re ordering pizza for dinner and cracking jokes, and even if Bucky stops every now and then and looks at her like he’s a little lost, like he’s not sure he deserves this, it’s still enough.

On the way out, Sam shakes Bucky’s hand, tells him with a grin that he owes him a pair of wings, and Bucky doesn’t frown— he smiles.

—

Going back to New York was a good idea, as far as Steph’s concerned. It was— tricky, with Bucky so worried he’d get caught out, someone would recognise him as the threat he’s still half-convinced he is. They managed it, though.

Settling into her apartment there was easy enough, though Bucky had grumbled about the fact that the place was double the size of their old apartment, but he adjusted to having space to roam around, to stretch out and relax the way they never used to, even if it hadn’t been a problem back then.

Really, Steph half-wondered if having so much freedom was preferable for him, after so many years of—

Brooklyn has changed since they lived here before, but some things are still the same. The carousel on the waterfront they used to love is still there— restored and protected, but still running, still with that feel of home. They used to scrape together enough spare cash for a ride every month or so, Steph remembers, and seeing it again is nice, for both of them. She doesn’t say anything, but the smile on Bucky’s face when he sees it is unmistakeable, telling her this walk was worth it.

From there, walking through Dumbo is almost like it used to be. The park’s changed, restored a few times over after bad weather and cyclones, but it’s still nice, settled, walking by the waterfront and gazing out over to Manhattan. There’s a market running, too, when Steph takes him out, and it’s a little different to what Bucky’s used to, and she briefly worries that the amount of people will get to him, but he manages, pausing by a little crafts stall and smiling at a carefully made hairpin with a blue jewelled flower.

It’s the only thing he buys, and Steph wears it for the rest of the day.

Last, but most definitely not least, they cross Brooklyn Bridge like they used to do every now and then, and even with the groups of people, the cyclists and the tourists, it still feels the same. Still feels like home, to Steph.

Bucky holds her hand a little tighter when they’re about halfway across, and for a moment she worries he’s not okay, that the crowds are too much, but he simply pulls her out of the way, over by the railing so they have a little more space, and tangles their fingers together, looking her in the eye with a small smile.

“ If I hadn’t left, this is where I would’ve proposed. “

And for a moment, all Steph can do is stare, because he never told her that. They never talked about it. He remembers.

—

Reaching for Steph’s hand, a worn-in motion now, she smiles at Bucky briefly before casting her eyes over the room again. It hadn’t been long before Stark figured out she was back in New York, and from there it had been a matter of Pepper insisting they do _something_ for her, throw a party or a dinner or something or the other.

Convincing Bucky to come along had been a little tricky, but she explained what they were to her. To everyone, really. He’d been a little hesitant, but— he agreed, in the end. Besides, it gave him a chance to apologise to Natasha, even if she insisted he could buy her a drink and they’d be even.

All in all, he’d handled the night well. Sam made a point of crashing the party - which had nothing to do with Steph telling him when and where to turn up - which gave Bucky another familiar face. Once Stark levelled out and Steph threatened to show him up in a sparring match again, Bucky found he wasn’t _awful—_ much like his dad used to be, actually. And of course, the whole team took to Bucky like a duck to water, recognising him instantly and doing what they could, in turn, to make him feel welcome.

Though, she’s a little concerned that Clint’s form of bonding involved an invitation to sniper practice, but she can’t be too picky. Especially not when Bucky’s smile comes a little easier now, when his laughter sounds more his own than it did a few weeks ago.

—

They’re not entirely there yet, Steph knows— there’s not a single day that she’s not wracked with guilt for failing him, not a day that Bucky doesn’t apologise for things that weren't even his choosing. Every week or so, Steph still wakes up with a scream, scrambling for Bucky’s hand to make sure he’s still there, still okay. He still has moments where his eyes go a little darker, where he’s mumbling something in Russian to himself, where Steph has to remind him where he is, that he’s home, that she’s there with him.

But he’s smiling, now. They’re both smiling again. And that’s enough.

 


End file.
